That was Heaven’s job, along with three other volunteers—drizzling the dressing after other chefs and volunteers had placed the other salad elements.
As one group of servers picked up the soup bowls, the second group started serving the fish.
Since it was spring, the meat course was lamb. The chefs had long grills set up and some of the volunteers had taken the tedious job of grilling twelve hundred baby lamb chops. They were just keeping them on the grill a minute, then turning them over for another minute, as they had to be put in the electric warmers after they were grilled and would keep cooking. There was no way to have rare lamb at an event like this, but they were hoping for a little pink left in the center. These were being served around a baby-artichoke-and-potato gallette that had been baked at Bayona and brought over in warming boxes. There was also another side dish on the plate that Heaven intended to copy, a crawfish spoonbread. A little mound of it was decorated with a crawfish and placed at the twelve o’clock position on the plate. The guest sits at the six o’clock position.
The talk in the food tent was minimal. Everyone had their assignments for every dish ahead of time. On this course, Heaven was placing the three chops around the potato-and-artichoke galette. She walked slowly down the aisles of tables with plates, going behind the two people doing the potatoes.
Although it wasn’t the hardest physical labor in the world, plating for a big party was intense work. You were a part of a team fighting the clock. It was hard enough getting out food reasonably hot and still edible for a large party in a hotel situation, as anyone who has eaten at a banquet knows. Doing it in an outdoor setting with no kitchen required lots of organization. Heaven was glad she had so much catering experience to fall back on.
When the lamb went out, the kitchen started drinking. It wasn’t that the next courses weren’t as important. To the diner, the cheese and salad, and the desserts, were just as important in how the whole dinner worked together. But the crew was glad they had the hot stuff out of the way and that nothing bad had happened in relation to the many incidents that had occurred before the dinner. So, the Veuve Cliquot was broken out and everyone raised their glasses. So far, so good, someone quipped as a toast and then they quickly went back to work.
The salad course was simple. A local grower had supplied baby Lalla Rosa lettuce. Some blueberries and toasted pecans were tossed on top and a light dressing with blueberry vinegar and hazelnut oil was lightly drizzled on the lettuce. But because New Orleanians weren’t afraid to eat, after the salad was served, platters of French and American cheeses would be passed, along with dense walnut bread and crackers. The cheese trays had been arranged by the cheese wholesaler, who came to the dinner to fuss over his prize triple creams. He didn’t want anyone to mishandle his goods as he had been carefully aging cheese for the evening. Heaven’s assignment was to slice the walnut bread with a volunteer. She waited until the salads were ready to go out, then they sliced furiously so the bread would be fresh when it was presented. Heaven hated being offered bread that had become even a bit dry to the touch.
She left the volunteer to put the bread in baskets. The next course was her Nola Pie.
Heaven went to the first empty table, where someone was already putting down empty luncheon-sized plates. She had asked for a slightly larger plate because cutting into a tart on a dessert-size plate could result in food flying onto the table. A clean bus tub was piled with the cookie crusts, still in their pie shells. Heaven and Pauline had added some pecans to the shortbread dough. Heaven showed a volunteer where to place the pastry shell, at the top of the plate. “Be careful taking these out of the aluminum. They’re fragile and we only have twenty-five extras. Five broke in the shipping,” she explained.
Heaven retrieved the rest of the ingredients. It was the job of the lead chef on every course to make the first plate so everyone had a pattern to follow. In the empty crust, Heaven placed some pieces of broken up pralines. She had ordered them from one of the local praline makers, the one at the French Market, and asked them to break the large rounds in small pieces just before they delivered them to the site so the sugar wouldn’t have time to crystallize. Heaven was afraid the smaller pieces would crystallize faster than a whole praline. Sugar was so tricky. She bit into one and it was still creamy, not grainy.
After the praline bits, Heaven spooned in some Louisiana strawberries that had been sliced and macerated in just a little sugar and Grand Marnier. In Peristyle’s kitchen, Heaven had baked custard in hotel pans and burned sugar on the top to create pans of crème brûlée. A volunteer had taken one of the biscuit cutters and cut rounds out of the custard in the afternoon, before the sugar was burned on it. Heaven carefully slid a spatula under one of the custard rounds and set it on top of the strawberries. “It’s all right if the surface of the brûlée is cracked. It can’t be helped.”
Then she opened a big cake box full of cookies from Crossaint D’Or. Pauline had wanted to do these but, because of her bad wrist, Heaven had enlisted the French Quarter’s favorite pastry bakery. Now Heaven placed a dab of strawberry puree on the plate in front of the tart, and on it placed a cookie in the shape of the sisters’ lost cross, a cookie that had been decorated with the appropriate curlicues so it looked authentic.
“The puree should fix the cookie on the plate, but the servers need to be careful so the whole thing doesn’t shift,” she said to the assembly around her. Appreciative murmurs followed. It was a very New Orleans dessert and the cross made it right for the occasion. Heaven picked up the bowl of praline bits. “Thanks, but this was a team effort since several of the parts were produced right here in the Quarter. I just thought it up. I’m on praline. Let’s go,” she said, and started down the line of plates.
Only the sorbet course remained. Heaven took a long drink of Veuve and smiled to herself, relieved. The last tart had just gone out of the tent. She took a deep breath and walked into the narrow area behind the kitchen tent and in front of the dishwashing tent. The kitchen tent only had its canvas walls down on the side facing the diners. The back side was open so the chefs could get some air. The side facing the river was also open, and was the location of the grill and the propane tanks with their iron tripods and pots of grease. Heaven could see six or seven people in chefs’ coats coming up the drive lugging coolers filled with various flavors of sorbet they had just retrieved from the freezer at Bayona.
It was almost over. A jazz band had played during dinner and there was a dance floor set up on the flat part of the courtyard that was usually a parking lot. A Cajun band was going to play soon and Heaven saw someone with an accordion walking up the drive behind the sorbet. She turned toward the dining area and spotted Truely and Mary and Will. There was a beautiful blonde beside Will, obviously his date for the night. Good, Heaven said to herself. The four of us were getting too cozy. On Monday I’ll be gone back to Kansas City and all of us will go on with our lives. And whatever damage the nun-hater was after will be history, except for losing the cross.
All of a sudden, a roar, then a whoosh of air, broke through the festive party sounds, followed by an explosion. It seemed to be coming from Chartres Street, right in front of the convent. The whole crew in the kitchen tent started down the driveway to the street, including their guard. When Heaven got to Chartres, she saw flames shooting out of a location about a half block away on Ursulines.
Everyone in the French Quarter lives in fear of fire. Fire had decimated this part of the city several times over its long history. The closeness of the buildings to each other meant a whole block could burn quickly.
People were running from all directions toward the flames. Heaven and most of the chefs stood on the corner by the convent, not walking any closer. The fire department trucks were winding through the narrow streets honking horns, with firefighters already off the trucks securing hoses to fire hydrants. A pumper truck backed into place and the chef’s guard, who was an off-duty policeman, helped with traffic control.
Heaven was relieved that whatever blew up down the street wasn’t meant for the party. So was everyone else. Giddy with excitement and champagne and the knowledge that they were on the last course, the cooks headed back up the drive. As Heaven turned she saw Will Tibbetts come to the convent entrance and look intently in the direction of the fire. Heaven thought he must have been in a pretty hot conversation with the blonde if he was just now getting up to see what the hell was going on.
As Heaven reached the kitchen tent a great hue and cry came from the opposite direction, the dishwashing tent.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Who is it?”
Heaven pushed up to the front of the crowd. There, wedged in one of the tubs for rinsing dishes, his legs dangling over the side, was Truely Whitten with a Global knife stuck in his chest, a hose running water into the tub and washing away any evidence. Placed between Truely’s legs so it was resting on his torso, was the stolen cross of the Sisters of the Holy Trinity.
Heaven couldn’t believe her eyes. “I bet that’s my knife,” she said without thinking of the consequences of that admission.
Suddenly Nancy Blair was standing right beside Heaven. “And that’s my cross,” she said to everyone’s surprise.
Heaven looked up from the body just in time to see Will catch Mary as she fainted.
Chicken Crepes
For the crepes:
1 1/3 cups milk
1 cup all-purpose flour
3 large eggs
3 T. unsalted butter, melted
1 T. sugar
dash kosher salt
canola oil or vegetable oil spray for your crepe pan
Mix all ingredients but oil together with an electric mixer or blender. Let set at least an hour at room temperature. Heat a crepe or sauté pan and spray or moisten with a small amount of oil. If you have a 1 oz. ladle, use that, or just pour a small amount of the batter in your pan and quickly swirl to coat the pan thinly with the batter. Cook about a minute and then carefully turn with a spatula. Cook another minute and turn out on wax paper. Cover with a towel or paper towel. Repeat process. Makes about 20 crepes. In some cities crepes are available pre-made at fancy food stores. You can make these the day before and refrigerate. Bring to room temperature before you try to use them.
For the filling:
5–7 lbs. bone in chicken breasts
5 stalks celery, sliced thin
1 small can water chestnuts, chopped fine
1 cup sliced almonds, toasted
1 cup Monterey Jack cheese
1 cup sour cream
kosher salt
white pepper
paprika
celery salt
dried dill weed
juice of one lemon
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cover the breasts with water and bring to a boil in a large saucepan. I usually add the tops and bottoms of my celery, at least half an onion with the skin still on, and a carrot if I have one. You can throw in some fresh herbs if you have them around although I don’t recommend rosemary. Reduce heat, skim, and simmer for 20–30 minutes until the breasts are cooked through. Drain and cool.
Pull meat from the bones and dice. Add all the other ingredients and combine, seasoning to taste. Place a spoonful on the top third of each crepe and roll up. Bake in a shallow baking dish for 30 minutes. Before the last ten minutes, spoon on some sauce Royal and a little grated Parmesan cheese to brown. Or you can omit the sauce and these will be good in an old-fashioned, country club food way.
For the sauce Royal:
2 T. butter
2 T. all-purpose flour
1 ½ cups cream or half and half
1 ½ cups chicken stock
½ cup grated Parmesan plus some for the top
In a heavy saucepan, melt butter and add flour to make a light roux. Let cook over low heat a minute or two, then add liquids and bring to a simmer. When the mixture starts to thicken add the cheese. Cook another 3–5 minutes and remove from heat.
Seven
Heaven never would have believed an hour earlier that the night would end like this, sitting in Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop having a drink with Nancy Blair and Amelia Hart, of all unlikely people. She felt she should be with Mary, but she and Will and Will’s date, who turned out to be named Charlynn, had gone to the police station to give their statements. They didn’t know how long it would be, so Heaven promised to see Mary the next day.
Lafitte’s was famous for being one of the oldest buildings still standing in New Orleans and the darkest bar in a city full of dark bars. A plaque by the door said it was built in 1780. Since then, pirates had sold their treasures in the back rooms and slaves were bought and sold there long after the practice had been legally abolished by the European government of Louisiana territory.
Tonight, the piano player at the piano bar in the corner of the back room was entertaining a group of conventioneers with Louis Armstrong imitations.
Heaven and the other women were sitting in the front at a table by the open windows, the night life of lower Bourbon on parade not three feet away, music in the air. Heaven felt strangely comfortable. The vibe of the bar, welcoming and dangerous at the same time, was appropriate for this particular night. Murders had no doubt been plotted inside these walls. Tennessee Williams had done some drinking in Lafitte’s. Had he ever sat where she was sitting now, Heaven wondered. Did he look out this window with unseeing alcoholic eyes at his neighborhood? She glanced around at the dilapidated room. Was a slave bought and sold right here, like a sack of cotton seed?
Heaven tried to focus on the two women at her table and snap herself back to the present, realizing she had a bone to pick with Amelia. In all the excitement, she’d not asked about Amelia’s source of information for the poison-pen letters. “Amelia, before you start in on Nancy, how did you find out about the letters to the chefs?”
“I could say I don’t have to reveal sources but after tonight I don’t feel like playing cat and mouse. I got a copy of every letter in the mail. Plain envelope, New Orleans postmark.”
“And ours were all postmarked with the city the chef lived in. I wonder how the creep accomplished that,” Heaven mused.
“Mailing service,” Amelia said impatiently. “Now, can I conduct a little interview here, please?” Amelia turned her attention to Nancy. “Nancy, let me get this straight. You found the cross through the antique underground and were going to return it to the sisters.”
“And paid a pretty penny for it, too. I have connections in those circles, as I’ve always loved beautiful things. My houses were full of antiques. I asked some old friends, they came through.” There was no apology in her voice, only pride.
“Who did you call to find the cross?”
Nancy snorted. “When I told you I’d be interviewed only if we went for a drink, I didn’t say I was going to run my mouth like a fool. I wouldn’t tell the police, told them they could haul an old lady off to jail if they wanted to. I’m sure not going to tell you, Ms. Hart.”
“Tonight why don’t you call me Amelia?”
Their cognac arrived in real glasses. The first time it had been served in plastic cups and Nancy sent it back. The three women held up their glasses for a toast. “Salud,” Heaven said solemnly.
“Okay, somehow you got the cross. Why didn’t you call up the sisters and simply return it then?” Amelia asked.
Nancy snorted dismissively. “A woman has to use her strength for her own advantage. I’ll put this question on the table and then you two tell me which sounds better. I return the cross and it’s back in its rightful place at the dinner. The sisters thank me and everyone yawns. Or, I bring the cross with me, stash it in the storage shed until the speeches start and then stop the whole proceedings by walking up with the cross in my hands, triumphant.”
Amelia and Heaven looked at each other. “Excellent point,” Heaven said.
“How was I to know someone would stab ol’ Truely with your knif
e and then set the damn cross on him like a dead pope?” Nancy said, irritated. No diva liked to have her plans ruined.
“So, now that we have that out of the way, what do you two think?” Heaven asked.
Amelia turned to Heaven. “What do we think about what?”
“Who killed Truely, of course,” Heaven said impatiently. “Do either one of you know any dirt on him?”
“You’re the one who stayed at their house,” Nancy pointed out. “You’re closer to them than we are.”
“Yes, but I don’t know the big picture. I only saw them every few years. What I can tell you is Mary and Truely seemed like a regular married couple around the house. I never saw them fight.”
“And you call that regular?” Amelia asked with sarcasm.
Nancy Blair got up. “It’s almost three in the morning, ladies. I think I’d better turn in. Would you two do me the honor of walking me home? Its not far, that big house back from the sidewalk up on Governor Nicholls.”
“You live there?” Amelia Hart was impressed. “I always wondered who lived there.” She threw down some money. “This is on the station. After all, I was conducting an interview.”
The three woman joined the street traffic on lower Bourbon. Nancy put an arm through each of theirs, walking in the middle and limping slightly. “If you play your cards right,” she said, “you can both have a tour. But not tonight. I’m pooped.”
“How about if I come over about ten in the morning with a camera to get a little sound bite? You can say just what you said to me tonight,” Amelia propositioned, not done working her angle yet.
“All right. Now hush,” Nancy barked. They walked along in silence, each of them trying to make sense out of what had happened, letting the disco beat fight with the zydeco rhythms of Bourbon Street. The music propelled them in the night.
Heaven got up about eight, early for when she had gone to bed, and packed, the lack of sleep balanced with nervous energy.
Red Beans and Vice Page 10
